


The Knocking

by Demodae



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-13 12:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11185578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demodae/pseuds/Demodae
Summary: Pre-Series: An abandoned mine, vandalism, violence, and before it all you hear the knocking...





	1. A Girl Called Winchester

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been rattling around my skull for some time now. I still haven't seen the last half of season five, so if anything in there contradicts this, forgive me for not knowing and just call it AU. I don't own any of the Winchester boys, I'm just borrowing them for a little while. :)
> 
> This is set Pre-series.

#

Chapter 1 - A Girl Called Winchester

#

Marcus Billings glanced at his map once more before checking the GPS. It showed he was still south east of his intended destination, but by less than a hundred feet, if the map was accurate. Since the map was a copy of one nearly a century old, he had his doubts, but he also wasn't in a hurry to be anywhere else. Tucking away map and gadget, he took a firm grip on the oak walking stick he'd started using about six years before and resumed his progress.

He was aware that many of his generation looked down on PDAs and iPods and the like, but he loved technology. For one thing, it made tramping through the mountains in any direction he liked so much easier. Certainly he still kept track of land marks and direction, but knowing that he had the GPS and his satellite phone, just in case, made his daughter fret less. And to be perfectly honest, it meant that he didn't have to let small lapses of memory weigh on his mind or curtail his favorite way to pass the days since his retirement.

Salt Creek had once been a much bigger town, catering to the miners that had crawled over these mountains, pulling precious metals from beneath the earth's skin. When the mines had played out the oftlineminers had left, most of them anyway, leaving behind dark holes in the ground and a lot of empty buildings. The holes had been closed up, and the buildings had been pulled down when the price of their upkeep outstripped their historic value.

Over the years since his retirement, Marcus had done some research and found who technically owned the few mines in the area that actually sat on personal property. He'd written for permission to explore them, stating his willingness to accept responsibility for any damage he took while on someone else's property. It irked him that in this day and age one had to explicitly take responsibility for one's own actions. When he'd been growing up that had been a given, something no one would have thought needed saying.

The mine he was looking for now actually belonged to Millie Lowry and her husband, who lived a couple miles outside of town. Her family had never left Salt Creek, even after their mines were closed, which made getting permission to explore that much easier.

When he found it, the mine entrance wasn't much to look at. The iron gate was thickly scaled with rust, though the chain and lock were new enough. Millie said that her father had replaced the lock and chain to keep kids from simply breaking the old ones and sneaking in. There was some brush and a small sapling growing at the base of the gate, but he'd come prepared for that.

Marcus dropped his pack, then stretched a little before pulling out the loppers he'd brought. The brush would be easy to clear, but the sapling might require the hacksaw. There was no way the gate would open with all that plant life in the way. Tipping his hat back on his head, he started his attack on the greenery guarding the entrance.

An hour later he had the entrance cleared. He could have stopped at half, and only opened one side of the gate, but his father had always said a half-assed job was no job at all, and Marcus hadn't even considered stopping before the job was done.

Now he stood back, stretching again to keep his muscles loose, and stared at the gate, letting his anticipation build. This was the best part, when he first stepped in, with all the possibilities still before him. Only once so far had he found any worthwhile ore in an abandoned mine, but that was enough to keep him going. It gave him an excuse to tramp across these mountains, poking his nose into old holes. More than once he'd found names carved into support beams. After the first time he started bringing a digital camera with him. Lots of people in town liked looking at evidence of their history.

With flashlight and camera attached to his belt, Marcus stepped to the gate. Millie had managed to find the key to the lock, so he wouldn't have to try and cut the thick chain. He'd come prepared, though, and gave the keyhole a couple good squirts of WD-40 before he even tried to slide the key in. The lock had been exposed to the elements for nearly ten years. There was no telling how mucked up the workings had gotten.

With patient and careful manipulation, the lock finally clicked open. Marcus unhooked the lock and unwound the chain from the iron gates. He gave each hinge a solid whack with a hammer to dislodge some of the rust, then gave them each a squirt with the WD-40 as well.

Now was the moment.

Taking a deep breath, Marcus grabbed hold of the gate and pulled it open with a groan of weathered metal. The sound echoed back from the darkness within. He clicked on his flashlight and stepped inside.

 

*****

"Get the hell out of my pub, Winchester."

Dean Winchester stopped dead on the threshold, muscles tightening. Being shouted at was not uncommon, but he hadn't done anything to deserve it yet, at least not in this town. The building he’d walked into bore the simple sign ‘Pub’, and it had seemed like a better bet than the overly fruity, health conscious diner he’d tried for breakfast. Time to re-evaluate that choice. His eyes darted this way and that, but they’d not adjusted yet to the dimmer light inside after the bright summer sun that baked the ground outside.

"Not my fault Rafe hits like a girl, Barry."

The mild reply had come from the girl halfway between Dean and the bar. He’d missed her at first glance, but now that he could see clearly, he took a moment to really appreciate the view. Most immediately apparent were the long, long legs, fully exposed from rolled socks and hiking boots clear up to the ragged hem of her short, short cut-offs. A slim waist showed in the gap between the top of her faded denim shorts and the bottom of her neatly hacked off flannel shirt. And hanging down nearly to that waist was a tumbling fall of light brown hair that showed generous sun-streaking from extensive time spent out in the healthy sunshine. Legs and arms both showed the lean musculature of someone who kept too busy doing real things to waste time in a gym.

"Get out, I said."

Barry, standing behind the bar, looked fit to pop a vein and definitely wasn’t addressing the young man standing in the doorway. Dean spared him a glance before letting his eyes return to watching her cross the rest of the distance to the bar. This just makes the whole day worthwhile.

"You know what I’m here for."

"And I got the right to refuse to serve anyone I plain don’t like. Get out of here, Winchester, before another one of your victims follows you in." The man’s eyes flickered to Dean standing in the doorway. "I got customers waiting."

The girl glanced over her shoulder, giving Dean a glimpse of a face that had won the genetic lottery. Then she turned back and pulled a fold of bills from a pocket. "Then sell me a bottle of Jack and I’ll get out of your hair."

Not that Barry had a lot of hair. The short buzz was half way to steely grey, though still thick. What he had in spades was dark circles under his eyes, lines of worry and grief etched deep in his face, and the hard glitter of bitter, grinding fear buried everywhere but in his dark eyes.

"You arrogant, selfish, uppity bitch!"

The girl tilted her head, leaned one elbow on the bar, and clapped quietly with hands covered in thin, black driving gloves. "I’ll give you an eight for feeling, but Rafe’s still ahead of you on the technical and old man Billings is in the lead with a perfect ten for artistic interpretation." Without another word, she held out the folded green between two fingers.

Face twisted by frustration and defeat, Barry jerked a bottle from under the bar and slammed it on the polished wooden surface hard enough to make Dean wince in anticipation of a cruel and senseless waste of good booze. The bottle survived the impact. Barry snatched the cash from her hand with unnecessary roughness and stomped away to the register at the end of the bar. The girl watched him for a moment before straightening and grabbing the bottle by the neck.

"See you tomorrow, Barry."

"Screw you, Winchester."

"Only in your dreams, Barry."

She smiled sweetly at Dean as she slipped past him and out the door. He stood staring after her for a moment, then let the door swing closed, shutting out the intrusive, overly bright light of day. Light that bright had no business in a place like this. When he turned back to the bar Barry was watching him.

"Dude, you kicked something that looks like that out of a place that sells beer? You looking to start a riot?"

Barry grimaced at him, slamming the drawer on the register harder than necessary. "She’s easy on the eyes, kid, but hell on the nerves. What can I get for you?"

"Please tell me you got burgers here, something with actual meat."

"Been to Mindy’s then?" Barry laughed when Dean nodded emphatically. It was a tired sound, but genuine enough for all of that. "Yeah, we got meat."

"Oh man, you are my savior. Make it a cheese-burger, medium rare, extra bacon with the works, and a beer."

Dean seated himself on a stool at the bar while Barry stepped away to yell his order through the door into the kitchen and took another look around. Single story building, twelve foot ceilings, a scattering of tables off to one side, a currently silent jukebox in the corner, booths around the walls, and an open area for dancing. The lights were low, but the room was not dark, simply a relief from the high altitude summer glare. Fans whirled slowly, half-hiding the hum of air-conditioning. A couple of people sat at the tables and one of the booths was occupied, but that was it, on a Friday afternoon, in a town with only two eateries. But then, maybe the place got busy in the evening, when men came home from the mines or factories and needed to relax.

When Barry came back his way, Dean jerked his head in the direction of the door and the absent, but not forgotten girl.

"So, a girl named Winchester?"

Barry grimaced again, but with less venom this time. "Margaret Winchester. A real wild child, that girl." He cocked an eyebrow at Dean. "And not in any good way, either, son. That girl comes in here and buys a whole bottle from me every damn day. Scotch, whiskey, tequila, she don’t seem to care, so long as it’s top shelf stuff. Surprised she hasn’t pickled her liver well and good by now, except I figure she’s sharing it with whoever she’s currently knocking boots with. That girl’s gonna implode one of these days, you mark my words."

Barry sighed, deep, almost trembling as he exhaled. "And it’ll kill her grandma dead, break her heart good and proper."

Dean noted the words and the way they were said, storing them away. "She’s legal for the booze? I notice you didn’t card her."

"Legal don’t make it right, young thing like her drowning her life away just because she can. I’d pitch her out the door if her grandpappy wasn’t sheriff around here. He’d want to know why, then come down on me for disapproving of his darling angel."

"And what did the darling angel do to make you shout her out the door?"

The anger was stronger, harder this time, no longer weary acceptance. "Come seven-thirty-ish she likes to set up shop in my back booth there." Barry waved at the corner booth nearest the kitchen. "Holds her readings, or seances, or whatever. Girl claims to be a psychic, and she’s got half the retirees in town traipsing through the door to consult with her. If she was just conning the travelers passing through that’d be one thing, but bilking money out of old folks on a fixed income, widows missing their husbands or worrying about their grandkids who live too far away for an easy visit... that’s not right.

"And last night Bethany Garver came to her. The girl told her to break up with her boyfriend, that he was cheating on her. When Rafe came in, Bethany did just that. Rafe threw the first punch, but there's no such thing as a wall-flower Winchester. I broke it up before someone had to call the sheriff about the ruckus. Threw ‘em both out on their ears. That girl’s a ring-tailed terror, no two ways about it, and can’t no one tame her down."

Dean took that in. Most of the supposed psychics he’d run into were out and out fakes, doing it for the cash, or for the attention. And taking money from old ladies was a seriously scumbag thing to do, but it wasn’t any of his business, not unless she was dragging them out into the fields afterward to sacrifice them to some corncob harvest god or some such.

The name, though. Winchester. He wasn’t dim enough to think that his family had a lock on the name, but it wasn’t like Smith or Brown, either. Salt Creek, Colorado was a fair distance from Lawrence, Kansas, too. It was an interesting coincidence, all in all.

His burger came, and while he chewed in greasy, carbo-bliss, with appreciative sounds to let Barry know just how much better this was than Mindy’s fruit and soy cream over granola, he let his thoughts drift back to Margaret Winchester. They were happy thoughts.

This was as good a place as any to wait until his dad finished up with his current job and contacted Dean to let him know where to meet up again. The food was worth hanging around for, and so far the local wildlife was well worth another look, as well.


	2. Traveling Freakshow

#

Salt Creek, Colorado was not a big town. After lunch Dean took a stroll and in half an hour saw all there was to see. Besides Mindy’s, the Pub, and the small motel where he had a room under the name Dean Tyler, there was a rural supply store, a small grocery, and a barber shop that was trying to pretend it was a salon. The pokey doctor’s office was suspiciously cheek-by-jaw with the veterinary clinic. The sheriff’s office, the weathered but still white church, and the mechanic’s shop/gas station rounded things out. The rest of the buildings were the homes of those residents that didn’t prefer the isolation offered by living deeper in the woods.

That was it. The people of Salt Creek had as self-contained a world as could be imagined. They even had the usual small town characters that universal law required. Mindy was trying to pretend that she lived in a much bigger town. The mechanic had eyed the Impala with undisguised lust when Dean had pulled in the evening before. And then there were the two crusty old men sitting outside the store, watching the world go by. They hadn’t so much as shifted positions since he’d first laid eyes on them. Nor had he heard so much as a whisper cross their lips.

Perhaps it was just that there was absolutely nothing else to do in town than sit and stare. He wasn’t even sure there was a pool table within the town limits, which was a definite contravention of the small town rules. It also meant that he'd be unlikely to increase his pocket cash by hustling pool or poker, at least not in this town.

_Maybe Barry has a dart board._

*****

At seven Dean gently closed the hood of the Impala and ducked into his room to wash his hands. There wasn't anything wrong with the car, but it never hurt to keep an eye on things, just in case. His baby wasn't as young as she used to be. He changed into a cleaner shirt, reminding himself again that it was past time to do laundry, then headed toward the Pub.

Business was better than it had been that afternoon, but it was by no means as busy as Dean would have expected, even from a wide-spot-in-the-road town like Salt Creek. And nearly a third of the patrons seemed to be middle-aged women or little old ladies. They were congregated near the corner booth, but the booth itself was conspicuously empty. Many of them were sipping coffee and eating chocolate cake, chatting with each other while they waited for the evening's performance.

Dean claimed a table with a good view of the door and the booth, though the place was hardly crowded enough to make visibility difficult. The juke was playing Sinatra, but it was quiet enough not to annoy him too seriously or make it difficult to hear nearby conversations. The single waitress, a leggy blond with her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail and a name tag that read 'Anne', swept past, refilling coffee cups, then swung back, notepad at the ready.

"What can I getcha?"

Dean grinned at her. "What else around here looks good?"

She acknowledged the heavy-handed compliment with a wry twist of her lips, but carried on with the smooth skill of experience. "I can recommend tonight's special, Jack Daniel's marinated pot roast with mashed potatoes, gravy, and steamed vegetables. Or we've got the Heart Attack Burger with seasoned fries, or our ever popular pancakes and eggs."

"I'll take the special, and a beer."

She jotted something on her notepad, scooped the coffee pot back up, and wove her way through the tables to the kitchen, topping off mugs as she went.

Dean lounged back in his chair and absorbed the atmosphere. The place was busy enough, if a little subdued. It pulled at his instincts, but not in a 'warning: danger' sort of way. Something was out of sorts, but not necessarily... bad. At least, not bad _yet_.

The meal was good, the beer was cold, and best of all, there was apple pie for dessert. At twenty to eight Margaret Winchester strolled through the door. All the waiting ladies perked up. Their numbers had grown by another half dozen or so since Dean had come in. They had clustered in booths and at tables, talking quietly and ordering food and coffee. Barry, from his place behind the bar, had not looked pleased, but had never refused to serve any of them.

When Anne next passed by the corner booth, Margaret ordered a bowl of Forever Stew. Anne moved on, and Margaret pushed her silverware off to the side. This seemed to be some sort of signal, because there was a sudden shuffling among the waiting ladies, then a particularly spry grandmotherly type sprang to her feet and stepped quickly to the corner booth and slid in opposite Margaret.

Dean leaned his elbows on the table, forked up another bite of pie, and listened in. He didn't bother to hide it, because everyone else was obviously doing the same. The old woman fished something out of her purse and slid it across the table. It looked like a wedding ring.

"Again, Dot?"

"Please?"

"It doesn't change, Dot. It's the same, every time."

"I know, but I miss him, and when you read it brings him right back to me. It's such a comfort, dear."

"Very well."

Margaret slipped the driving glove from her left hand and curled her fingers around the ring, closing her eyes in concentration.

"He wakes before dawn. He's been doing it so long that he doesn't need an alarm or the cock crow to help him. He lays still. He doesn't need to get up yet and this is his favorite part of the day. He can hear you breathing quietly beside him. He shifts slightly to lay his head on your shoulder, soothing you when you stir. You press one hand to his cheek before settling back into sleep and he leans into it just a little. He lays there listening to your heart beat, as steady and strong as his love for you. He wonders at his good fortune, to wake to this every morning. Every day is the same, predictable, comfortable and, because of you, perfect. This is his daily ritual, you are his religion, the star around which his world turns. Too soon the cock crows, and he has to rise and leave you. He slips from the bed, but pauses to kiss you. Every time he leaves you, he must leave you with a kiss, because who knows when it may be for the last time, and God forbid he leave you without that sign of his love...."

Margaret's eyes opened and regarded Dot across from her, who was smiling, but wiping tears from her eyes. "Do you want more, or is that enough?"

"That was exactly what I needed, dear. Thank you."

Dot accepted the ring back, patted Margaret on the shoulder, and slid out of the booth. A housewife promptly slid in to take her place, but Dean watched Dot. The old lady wended her way through the tables toward the bar. She stopped and chatted briefly with Barry, and when the man turned his back to fill a drink order, her hand slipped into the tip jar and out again, smooth and silent.

When Dean turned back the housewife had produced a letter.

"You really shouldn't be using me to spy on your daughter, Juney."

"I just want to make sure she's really okay. I worry that she's glossing over stuff. Her grades are good, but this is the first time she hasn't come home for summer. What if something's wrong and she won't tell me?"

"This is the last time. After this you need to ask her yourself, Juney."

"I will, honest."

Margaret nodded, her expression clearly stating that she doubted it really was the last time. She placed her hand flat on the letter and once again let her eyes close. Dean was surprised that the girl didn't go in for any theatrics. Most psychics hammed stuff up so the victim felt they were getting their money's worth. Not that he'd spotted any money changing hands.

"She likes writing by hand. She knows you appreciate an actual paper letter instead of an email. She's not worried about anything, but there's... yes, anticipation. She's got a date. She expects him to knock on her door any moment now. She wonders if she should tell you, but she's not sure if it's serious enough to bother."

"What's his name?"

"If she thinks it, the paper didn't catch it. I'm sorry."

Juney collected her daughter's letter and folded it away. A moment after she slid from the booth, Anne placed a bowl in front of Margaret. The woman who'd been rising to take the next turn settled back into her chair to wait. Dean let his eyes follow the housewife. She, too, stopped by the bar on her way out. She reached out a hand to give Barry's wrist a comforting squeeze. He nodded and they spoke together until someone farther down the bar called his name. When his back was turned, once again a hand slipped unnoticed into the tip jar.

_Slick. I'll bet Barry hasn't even noticed._

When the bowl of stew was pushed away the routine started up again. Dean listened to a few more 'readings', grinning to himself. Margaret's customers produced any number of personal items, belt buckles, a pipe, once even an unlaundered t-shirt. This last was returned 'unread'.

"Barb, if you snuggle up with it at night, it's going to pick up you too, which muddles the reading."

"I know, I know, but it makes me feel better when he's off on a run, like he's still there with me. It helps me fall asleep, you know?"

"Then you don't need me, Barb." Margaret laughed. "Get the man a cell phone and have him call you in the evenings. Between the shirt and hearing his voice, you should be able to drift off no problem."

The very lack of theatrics seemed to make them believe her even more. These were simple, straightforward people, who had found themselves a simple, straightforward 'psychic'. And each time, even with the rejected shirt, the women, and in one case a man, drifted to the bar before leaving the Pub. They didn't always stop to talk with Barry, but again and again, hands passed quickly in and out of the tip jar.

It was very slick. And it still wasn't any of his business.

Dean ordered another slice of pie and lingered over it. Just past nine no one else slid into the booth, even though there were a lot of ladies who hadn't yet taken a turn. Perhaps they'd come just for the show. Truth be told, it was better than cable. 

They began to drift away in twos and threes, still chatting amiably among themselves, so Dean rose, taking his plate with him, and slid into the booth.

Margaret waited a couple of moments, giving him a chance to do something other than grin at her. "You're obviously new in town. You were in here for lunch this afternoon, weren't you?"

"Yup, that was me," he said around a bite of pie.

"Are you here for a reading, or to try and pick me up?"

Dean grinned wider. "I can't do both?"

He lay his hand on the table, palm up, between them, but she drew back, shaking her head.

"I try not to touch people. The feelings and images are too strong, too chaotic. It's overwhelming. I only do objects."

Dean didn't have many personal items. He wasn't going to hand her his keys, and his ring was tough to get off. After a single moment of hesitation, he slipped the cord of his amulet over his head and dropped it on the table. He tried not to be obvious about it, but he kept hold of the cord itself while she closed her hand over the amulet. She jerked her hand back after less than a second, working her fingers like she'd gotten a shock. She shot him a dark look.

"This is an item of power, of protection, and more. You could have warned me."

"Didn't know it would be a problem."

Her lips tightened, but she reached back out to hold the amulet again.

"You've worn this for over a decade. Hardly ever take it off. Your brother gave it to you. Your life is full of violence and danger. Sam's well out of it. Fight the darkness, protect the civilians. Miss Sam. Gotta protect Sam!" 

The last came out low and urgent, and cut entirely too close to the heart of things. Dean yanked the amulet from her grasp. She twitched and relaxed limply back on the bench seat, while he pulled the cord back over his head and tucked the amulet out of sight beneath his shirt. She took a few deep breaths and gave her head a shake. Wide green eyes stared at him over the table.

"Who are you?" she whispered. "The things I saw..."

"This was a bad idea." He started to slide out of the booth, but her gloved right hand fell on his wrist.

"Wait-"

Dean was saved from a response or from hearing the rest of her entreaty. A woman burst through the door, making a beeline for the corner booth. She upset more than one chair in her headlong rush. She caught herself on the edge of the booth, gasping for breath. One hand was held out toward Margaret, but she was careful not to actually touch the younger woman. "Mags, oh Mags."

"Sarah, what's wrong?"

"Mags, I-I think I've been cursed."

*****

Sarah Giles was led to a seat, plied with coffee that was more than half whiskey, and eventually calmed.

"Now," Margaret said gently, "start from the beginning."

Sarah nodded, looking numb now, rather than scared out of her wits. "It started yesterday. Something scared my hens and they haven't laid a single egg. All the fresh milk soured. There were weevils in the flour when I went to bake bread, and mice have gotten into the pantry. This morning when I got up every single cup and plate in the house had a crack. A bowl broke right in half when I tried to make Joseph breakfast. 

"When we were done with chores I came back in to do some cleaning. I heard a loud crack and every mirror in the house was smashed to shards. Charlie's sure it's kids playing pranks, but I sent Joseph to the Miller's anyway. And this evening, I swear something flung every single picture of my father off the mantle. The pictures of Charlie's family weren't so much as an inch out of place, Mags!"

Margaret placed her gloved hand on Sarah's and gave it a squeeze. "I believe you, Sarah. Did you bring me something?"

Sarah sniffed and nodded, Margaret's calm voice bringing her back from the edge of hysteria. "I figured the pictures might be too personal, so I brought a mirror shard from the guest room."

"That's perfect. Let's see what I can find out for you."

A paper towel was passed across the table and Margaret unwrapped a silvered spear of glass as long as her hand. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and gently brushed her fingers over the reflective surface.

"There's rage, nothing but rage, driving a desire to rend and destroy, to punish. Anger, too long pent up, finally exploding."

"But why?" Sarah asked. "I haven't done anything."

Dean, sitting at the table with the women, watched Margaret press her hand more firmly to the glass, as though leaning in to get a better look.

"They're following the blood, looking for the guilty." Suddenly she hissed and swiftly drew her hand back. Blood welled in a perfect line from the heel of Margaret's palm to the tip of her ring finger. She snatched up a napkin and pressed it to the shallow cut. "And they're striking out at anyone that comes within their reach."

"Who? What?" Dean asked

Margaret turned to face him. "I don't know."

Sarah seemed to truly notice Dean for the first time. "Excuse me, but who are you?"

"He's someone who can help, Sarah."

"But what do I do, Mags? I'm scared."

"Bloodlines seem important, so pack up Joseph and Charlie and take them to my guest house. Call your father, tell him to join you. You should be safe there, for tonight at least."

Sarah nodded again, jerkily, and dug through her purse to produce a cell phone. She hit a speed dial and waited. And waited. 

"Dad? Something's come up. Call me back as soon as you get this message. It's important." She set the phone down on the table and stared at it blankly. "Mags, he didn't answer. He's got to be up in the mountains somewhere, again."

"Your father knows these mountains better than anyone else, Sarah. He knows how to stay safe."

"No." Her head shook vehemently. "Something's wrong."

"Tell you what. If he doesn't call you back by morning, you let me know, and Paps and I will go out looking for him."

Sarah turned her hand under Margaret's and gave it a grateful squeeze. "Thank you."

"Just get your men-folk and get safe."

Sarah pulled herself together and left the Pub. Margaret threw a five on the table to pay for the coffee and whiskey, even though Barry threw her a hard glance that spoke loudly of his lack of pleasure at accepting money from the likes of her. She grimaced, then turned back to Dean and extended her gloved right hand.

"Margaret Winchester, local freak show."

He took the proffered hand, holding it tight. "Dean Winchester, travelling freak show."


	3. Weird is Relatives

#

"It's just a coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidence, not with a family like mine."

Dean hung on to the roll frame of the jeep. The vehicle had seat belts, but Margaret hadn't bothered to belt in and he'd never developed the habit. He was starting to wish he had. She'd also taken one look at the Impala and declared that it'd never make it over the roads they had to travel. Calling it a road was generous, in Dean's mind. It looked like a game trail that had been widened by the simple expedient of ramming a jeep through the underbrush. And with the headlamps throwing light everywhere but on the ground as they jounced over the ruts and humps, he could only hold on and hope she really did know where she was going.

He wasn't terribly happy to be in the vehicle in the first place, but Margaret--or Mags as she insisted he call her--was not to be denied. She'd seized him and had not let go, insisting that he needed to meet the rest of the family. She'd asked what his grandfather's name was, but Dean hadn't a clue, not on either side. Dad didn't talk about his family at all, and mom...

"So, tell me about your grandpa."

"Paps is the sheriff."

_Awesome._

Mags took her eyes off the road long enough to glance at him and grin, a flash of white in the deepening twilight. "Don't worry, once he finds out we're related he'll like you just fine."

"You mean he won't like me before that?"

Another flash of white glinted at him. "You're the wrong age and gender for that, especially being with me."

_Great. A hot babe I'm possibly related to with a protective grandfather._

Family was important. The only ones you could really count on were family. That had been hammered into his skull by the simple expedient of repetition since he was four years old. And Mags seemed to feel the same. But the idea that he might have family other than dad and Sammy was so utterly foreign as to be nearly incomprehensible to him.

Sooner than he'd been expecting, though not nearly soon enough for his whitened knuckles, the jeep slid to a stop in a spray of gravel in front of a large, cabin-style house. A suburban, another jeep, and a hum-vee--a real one, not a cream puff civilian model--were also parked in the clearing that served as a driveway.

"Good, the Gileses are already here." Mags slid out before the engine had actually died. "Come on. No one here will bite. Not unless you ask nicely."

Dean couldn't help but smile at that, and climbed out of the jeep to follow her. The house was solidly built, the exterior ablaze with light that could probably be seen for miles from any sort of height. As they approached he could see that the lintel and door were covered with hand carved designs, created long enough ago to be age darkened and worn glassy smooth by the hands of multiple generations. Even as he watched, Mags ran her fingers over the image of some sort of bird at about shoulder height before opening the door and stepping inside.

"Paps, I brought kin." 

Mags' shout was loud enough to startle, and certainly carried well. There was an immediate response in the form of pounding feet from the second floor. In mere seconds two young men were clattering down the stairs, scuffling good-naturedly as each tried to be the first to reach the bottom. The one who finally emerged the victor was a round-faced strawberry blond who was slightly taller than the other, who sported a squarer face topped by a mop of chestnut curls. They both looked to be a year or so younger than his own younger brother, Sam.

A bark of command brought the shoving competition to an immediate halt. "Boys!" 

The tone of voice straightened Dean's spine as well. He turned to face the tall, thick, grizzled bear of a man standing in a doorway leading farther into the house. Sheriff Winchester was still in uniform, including his gun belt, and his expression was not welcoming.

"Sorry, Paps."

"Jake, he really kin?"

Dean turned back to the boys. The blond frowned in Dean's direction for a long moment, staring hard, before finally nodding. "Sure is, Paps, just not your line."

The senior Winchester scanned Dean from top to toe with eyes that had seen much in his years. "You of John's get, boy?"

"Uh, yes, sir. Got a brother, too, but he's off in college."

The man grunted in disapproval, but not, Dean thought, at him or Sam. "My brother was a damn fool, turning his own boy out that way. Well, come along into the kitchen. Gram will want to greet you proper, then stuff you with food till your belt busts."

'... turning his own boy out that way.' Well, that would explain dad's complete silence when it came to his own folks. And it also helped explain some of dad's anger when Sammy'd walked away from them to go to college.

Dean gestured vaguely over his shoulder. "I've got a room-"

"Not no more you don't. Family sticks together. Now, get your keester into the kitchen, boy. You can go retrieve your gear in the morning."

Sheriff Winchester turned and disappeared. The boys grinned at Dean, then scrambled to follow their grandfather in the direction of food. Mags took Dean by the hand to lead him through the house.

"Welcome to the Winchester Clan, Dean. Abandon all hope. There's no escape."

*****

"My brother hadn't a scrap of gift that we could ever suss out. That boy of his, John, was an uncanny hand with a firearm, though."

They were seated around the kitchen table now, and Dean had acquired another thick slice of pie, cherry this time. Gram Winchester had exclaimed over what a handsome boy he was and how all the Winchester boys seemed to be blessed that way. Margaret's cut hand was examined, cleaned and dressed. Dean had been coerced into passing around the one and only family photo he kept on his person. It was the one of him and dad and Sammy, taken by Pastor Jim one Christmas a couple years after...

And in the last half hour he'd somehow acquired a great aunt and uncle and three cousins, none of whom had the least doubt he belonged to them. He knew he was still reeling from the shock of it, but the pie was excellent and doing its very best to cushion the blow.

"You knew my father, sir?"

"Met him once or twice when he was a nipper, but my brother was bound and determined that his boy wasn't going to grow up weird. Saw mighty little of any of them after that. Last I heard Bill had cut John off for going away to war without so much as a 'by your leave'. About a year after that his Alice died of the cancer and he followed not six months later." There was the respectful silence that happened in rural places at the mention of someone's death, and Dean filled it by taking another bite of pie.

"Tells us about you, Dean," Gram suggested from her seat next to her husband. She was tiny in comparison, but wasn't in anyway overshadowed by the big man. "Tell us about your family, everything we've missed."

"Uh. Well, mom's name was Mary Campbell. They married and got a place in Lawrence, Kansas. She died not long after Sam was born. House fire. We've pretty much been traveling ever since, moving from job to job."

Again the silence, but this time deeper. It startled Dean when he realized they truly were saddened for his loss, and not just being respectful. It was Paps who broke the silence.

"There's a lot missing from your story, Dean, but I'll not press you. You obviously had no clue you had family in these parts, and we're still nearly strangers to you. I'd like to hear more when you're willing to talk to me."

"I think he can help us with whatever's plaguing the Giles," Mags said. "He let me read that amulet around his neck, and-" she shot a glance at him, but didn't elaborate on what exactly she saw, for which he was just as glad. "I think he can help."

Paps made a contemplative sound. "So, you got a gift, boy?"

"Only for finding trouble."

"In my experience all boys got that gift. I know truth from lies when I hear or see it. My mother was a reader like Mags here, and her brother could track anything that moved. My son had a voice that could sooth man or beast, and he found him a genuine herb witch to marry. Jake can see bloodlines and Bobby sees patterns. Family lore says we throw duds from time to time, though."

_How often does the family breed hunters?_

The words very nearly said themselves, but Dean managed to keep them firmly behind his teeth. He'd already made the mistake of telling someone, someone he'd been close to, who might have been The One. She'd about called the loony bin on him. Dean prided himself on never making the same mistake twice.

"Maybe I'm another dud, like grandpa Bill."

Paps shrugged. "Mayhap. Don't make you any less a Winchester, or any less welcome under this roof." He stood, finally unclipped his tie, and unfastened the first couple of buttons on his uniform shirt. "Well, it's gettin' on past bed time, if Mags and I are going to tramp up the mountain looking for Marcus Billings in the morning. That Sarah will be over here at first light telling us how he hasn't called yet."

"Paps, I think Dean should come with us in the morning."

His gaze sharpened on her. "Something in your reading tell you that, Mags?"

"Dunno, Paps. Mostly it's just a feeling."

The sheriff accepted that without a blink, but considering what the rest of his family could do, Dean supposed that was only to be expected. The man turned to him inquiringly.

"You up for a trip into the mountains in the morning, boy?"

Dean shrugged. "Just so long as we're not camping."


	4. This Mine is Mine

#

Dean started awake, groping automatically for the gun beneath his pillow, listening hard for whatever had pulled him from sleep. The gun wasn't there, but neither was the noise. It was silence that had woken him, the silence of a sleeping house far from other people or busy roads.

His family's home.

Wow, was that a strange thought for, he glanced at his watch, four a.m. His family, or what he'd always thought of as his family, dad and Sam, hadn't had a home for more than twenty years. He sat up and scrubbed at his hair. It was nearly time to have it trimmed again, getting a bit shaggy on the top.

He blinked and shook his head to clear the rest of the cobwebs from his mind. There was entirely too much light coming in through his window, even for a Colorado summer. Dean rose swiftly and padded across the cool hardwood floor and glanced out. His window looked out into the woods beside the house. The light was coming from behind the house, from the first floor. Even as he watched, a shadow slid through the square of light thrown on the ground. Someone was awake and moving around down there.

The habit and training of years had Dean pulling his clothes on hurriedly. It never would have occurred to him not to investigate what was going on, even in a house that was not his own. As he slipped through the silent house, he grimaced at his complete lack of weaponry. Everything was in his room at the little motel, or in the trunk of the Impala, which was also back at the motel. He grabbed the poker from an andiron set next to the huge fireplace as he passed through the living room, and immediately felt better.

Everything was dark and quiet as he moved through the first floor of the house. He finally came to a door that was in the right place to lead to where he'd seen light and movement. He paused only a moment to ready himself, then swung the door open-

And stepped into Eden.

The greenhouse was brilliantly lit, and everywhere Dean looked there was a riot of green. It was warm, but not unpleasantly so. The neatly arranged planters and pots were all clearly labeled in a neat block script. Verbena, mint, chamomile, lavender, jasmine, clary sage, rosemary, honeysuckle... And the scent of it all was a bit heady. He had to fight hard to suppress a sneeze.

A clink of glass on wood pulled Dean's attention to his left. Keeping his eyes moving, and with a solid grip on the poker, he homed in on the sound. At that end of the greenhouse another room had been added. The door between them stood slightly ajar, and as he crept closer, he saw a figure move across the opening.

He glided up to the door and peered around the jamb to see inside. Mags stood at a long counter, an apron protecting her shorts and shirt, filling small jars of frosted green glass from a large mixing bowl. The smell of mint coming from the room overpowered anything else. Relaxing, Dean pushed the door open and stepped inside. She turned to look at him and smiled.

"Good morning."

"Isn't it a bit early for mixing up... what is that stuff?"

"Oatmeal mint hand cream." She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes with the back of a hand. Most of her hair was pulled back into a tail, but a few strands had escaped to frame her face. "I graduated with a degree in chemistry and another in botany. With that and mom's books on herbs and their uses, I make a killing with my own line of herbal cosmetics and medicines, and aromatherapy products."

"What happened to your folks?"

Mags shrugged, a little unhappily, but kept working. "They died in a car crash when we were little. Paps and Gram took us in without a second's hesitation."

Dean unobtrusively leaned the poker against the doorjamb and walked farther into the workroom. There were jars, containers and boxes all neatly stowed on shelves, all again clearly labeled. There was also a small stove, bowls, pans, a mortar and pestle, a food processor, and an industrial style sink. Everything was carefully organized and efficient.

"Here." She handed him a small damp towel. "Wipe the excess off the outside of the jars for me, would you?"

It was clearly an attempt to change the subject, so Dean accepted the towel and grabbed the first jar. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Oh, I don't seem to need a lot of sleep. Four or five hours is plenty for me. And I like the early hours of the day, they're so peaceful. The world is dreaming and everything is still and quiet. It's quiet enough for me to think my own thoughts, and have my own dreams."

"Your gift?"

She nodded, filling another jar with the thick cream. "I'm not sure if I'm stronger than great Gram was. I never met her. But I like working with things that have come straight from the factory, where machines are the only ones to ever touch what I'm handling. There's no emotion, no thoughts or worries or history attached to them. They're clean and I don't have to be careful or wary of touching them."

"So, when you touch people..."

"I told you, people are overwhelming. There's so many thoughts and impressions, so very many emotions and memories all at once. Once my gift woke I had to stop letting boys kiss me. I had a tendency to scream and then faint on them."

"That would be a bit of a blow to the ego."

She chuckled at him. "Anyway, great Gram managed to get married and have kids. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to do that, not unless I can find a man I can't read."

"That's gotta suck."

"Being a Winchester sucks sometimes, but we help a lot of people, do a lot of good." She glanced up at him from under dark lashes. "Someone's gotta do it, and we're better equipped than most."

"Ain't that the truth."

*****

They had filled all the jars, wiped them clean, capped them, carefully glued on the labels, and were in the process of tying on some sort of hand-made lace ribbon thing when Paps wandered in, pulling on his suspenders. He watched them for a couple of moments, his expression unreadable.

"Gram has breakfast going. Go put some long pants on, young lady."

Mags didn't move, but kept right on with her work. "I take it Sarah's been by already?"

"Not five minutes after I turned on the kitchen light."

"And still no word from her father?"

"None. The phone company has already given me the GPS coordinates. While you two clean up, I'll get our transportation ready. We'll eat, then be on our way." He looked at Dean. "How are you with a horse, boy?"

"Uh." Not a question he'd expected at barely half past six in the morning. "No clue. Never been on one."

"Well then, Mags and I are in for some entertainment, I expect."

*****

They drove the hum-vee, pulling a horse trailer, as far as the vehicle would take them. When the trails became too narrow, and the trees too close together, they stopped and Sheriff Winchester, once again in uniform, led four horses out of the trailer. Dean didn't need to ask what the spare was for. 

He managed to get into the saddle on his own, but his ears burned at Mags' chuckles. Thankfully the brown animal they chose for him was placid to the point of laziness, and was content to follow the sheriff's horse without any direction from the inexperienced young man on its back. Mags brought up the rear, leading the spare horse.

The sun was well up, though they wound in and out of mountain shadows, when they finally slowed near where old man Billings' phone was supposed to be.

"Marcus?" Paps called.

Mags echoed him. "Mr. Billings?"

But there was no answering call.

"Marcus, you respond to me or I'll not smooth it over next time a ranger brings you in for trespass."

"Mr. Billings, your daughter is worried about you again."

Dean listened to the silences between the shouts. The outdoors was not his natural habitat, but even he could tell something wasn't right.

"Marcus."

"Mr. Billings."

Paps brought his horse to a stop, and Dean managed to make his come up along side. They had reached the entrance to an abandoned mine. Before it was the torn and scattered remains of a bedroll and an external frame hiking pack. Even as he watched, a fat raccoon came boiling out of the largest remaining section of pack and scuttled for shelter in the trees.

"Marcus!"

The sheriff dismounted and Mags followed suit. Dean kicked his legs free and slid off his horse. His legs protested violently when he landed, and he staggered against the horse, which snorted at him, but held its ground. He clutched at the saddle for support and Mags was quickly by his side to steady him.

"Keep moving. Walk it off. It's honestly the best way to deal with it."

"A warning would have been nice," he growled.

Her smile was teasing. "Would it have made it hurt less?"

Dean only grimaced at her and forced his legs to take his weight. Mags went to join her grandfather in looking through the mess made of the pack. Dean followed their example and simply let the reins of his horse drop to the ground. He stalked toward the rusty gate that used to bar entrance to the mine.

"Don't see a fire ring, Paps."

"No rain last night, and it certainly wasn't colder than a simple sleeping bag would handle, so he wouldn't have taken shelter in the mine."

"No tracks from anything bigger than scavengers."

"Sure looks like he never even unrolled his bag."

"Paps, I'm not sure he did more than unpack his tools."

"Marcus, can you hear me?"

The pile of brush to one side of the mine entrance showed some of the effort needed to open the old gate. Dean reached out a hand to inspect the much newer lock. His fingers came away greasy.

"He lubricated the lock and hinges."

"Millie gave him the key," the sheriff said from behind him. "She let me know she'd given him permission. Didn't want me arresting him for trespass. Wouldn't be the first time I've done it."

Sunlight slanted across the entrance, throwing everything beyond the half-open gate into deep shadow, but a faint, and terribly familiar scent tickled his nose.

"Flashlight?"

Mags unclipped one from her belt and tossed it to him. Dean caught it and clicked it on. He pointed it into the darkness and his expression turned grim.

"I think I found him." 

Marcus Billings had not made it very far. 

As Mags and the sheriff rushed to his side, Dean pulled the gate father open and stepped inside. He scanned the ground, and then shone the light farther down the tunnel before crouching on protesting legs to inspect the body. Dean heard Mags gasp and glanced back at her. She turned hastily away from the body, but her grandfather stepped up next to Dean with a weary sigh.

The man had been slashed to ribbons, his clothes little more than bloody rags. Dean was no tracker, but he could see clearly enough that the old man had made it only a few steps inside before he'd been attacked, and had never even managed to stagger back to the exit.

"It wasn't an animal, was it, Paps?"

"Don't think so. Didn't see any prints. Body hasn't been worried, eyes and belly intact. No, this wasn't an animal."

"What are you thinking, Dean?"

He glanced up at her, surprised. Mags was looking resolutely at him, not the body, gloved hands wringing each other.

"I don't think it was an animal, either. See how clean the cuts are? And none of them are parallel. This wasn't done with claws, but knives. Sharp knives, and definitely more than one. None of these look deep enough for there to be a single killing blow, but he didn't have time to run away, either."

Sheriff Winchester drilled him with a hard stare. "You're holding something back, boy. You know something more."

"No, sir, not about this I don't."

The man frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Mags interrupted him. "Shall I read Mr. Billings, Paps?"

"Wait, I thought you didn't touch people." Dean stood up with a groan and tried to massage some of the pain out of his right thigh.

Mags nodded. "But he's dead. There's no active thoughts or feelings. It shouldn't be too bad."

Paps grunted in disapproval. "I don't like you doing that, Mags."

From the body language of both parties, it was obviously an old argument, and Dean didn't feel like sitting through a rehash. "Maybe if she reads the gate, or the mine, instead? I think it's more important we know what did this, than we know Mr. Billings' last thoughts. They probably weren't fit for polite company, anyway."

Her grandfather, Dean was having a real hard time thinking of him as a great uncle, pursed his lips in thought, then nodded. "I'm more comfortable with that, Mags."

She shot him a look that very clearly stated that his comfort wasn't the one that really mattered where her gift was concerned. "Very well."

Both men escorted her the three steps to the gate. Mags pulled the glove from her left hand. The bandage covering the cut from the night before was a stark contrast to her tanned skin. She lay her hand against the metal and closed her eyes.

"It's a them. Their every thought and feeling beats against this gate." She sucked in a low gasp. "They hate it. They're the same ones who are after Sarah." Her hand closed around the rusting metal. "Trapped. They're trapped... No escape. It burns us. It freezes-it burns." 

A convulsive jerk caused the gate to clang loudly. "Fear." 

_Clang._ "Anger." 

_Clang, clang, clang._ "Rage.

"Betrayers! Free us! Knocking in the earth. Knocking, knocking in the dark. Free us!"

Her last words were a low growl, through bared teeth. Dean exchanged a worried glance with Paps. They moved together, Paps grabbing the gate and Dean looping his arm around Mags' waist to pull her away. As soon as the contact was broken, his cousin went limp in his arms for a moment, before shaking herself free from the vision.

Dean glanced from Mags to Paps. "Well, that was very 'drums in the deep', but what does it mean?"

Mags flexed her left hand once or twice, and Dean noticed the fresh bright red seeping into the white of the bandage. "Whoever did this is very angry, and they don't much care who they hurt on their way to the ones they're angry at."

"Right." The sheriff looked at them both, and then nodded. "Alrighty then. I need to call this in. Dean, take my granddaughter home. I gotta wait here for the doc and my crime scene tech."

Dean glanced meaningfully toward the body laying in the dirt of the mine. "Uh, sir..."

"I won't be any safer here alone than I will be with you two here, 'specially seeing how neither of you is armed. Please, take her somewhere safe."

Dean's lips tightened, but he nodded. He knew about protecting your family, about making sure those who didn't have to fight were safe. He began to usher Mags back toward the horses, grimacing at the thought of hauling himself back into the torture device known locally as a 'saddle'.

"And, boy?"

Dean turned back to look at the older man. "Yes, sir?"

"We'll discuss what you're holding back when I get home."

"Awesome."


	5. Sufficient Unto the Day is the Evil Thereof

#

They swung through town on the way back to the Winchester family home. Dean retrieved his stuff and checked out of the motel. He threw his pack in the back of the hum-vee, then grabbed the duffel out of the trunk of the Impala, just in case. It looked like he was going to be answering some hard questions anyway, so there was no point in continuing to go unarmed. Besides, it felt decidedly unnatural.

Mags wasn't in the vehicle when he got back to it. He didn't have time to do much more than glance around before she came out of the Pub, a bottle in her hand. She climbed into the cab, silently handed him the bottle, and started the engine, pulling out of town at a more sedate speed than she had the night before, no doubt in consideration of the horses in the trailer they were pulling.

Glancing at the bottle of Johnny Walker Blue in his hand, Dean tried to calculate how much it cost her a month to buy top shelf alcohol every day. Her herbal fru-fru stuff must sell for big bucks to cover the cost.

"Barry mentioned to me that you buy a bottle everyday."

"He wasn't lying."

A heavy sort of silence descended, but Dean could never keep his mouth shut. "You sure don't seem to be drinking it, so why buy a new bottle every day?"

Mags remained silent only a little longer before sighing. "The Pub normally brings in enough business to keep Barry and his family comfortable and to put a little by, mostly in hopes that his sons won't have to rely on football scholarships to go to college. About three months ago his younger boy, Jack, was diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia. The doctor's bills are steadily eating up their savings.

"So every day I go in and buy an expensive bottle of booze. And every evening I sit in the corner booth, and all the older ladies of the town come in and buy coffee and cake, or even dinner, which they'd normally eat at Mindy's or at home."

"And the money they would normally offer, and that you normally refuse, is now finding its way into Barry's tip jar."

She shot him a glance. "Noticed that, did you?"

"Sure, but I don't think Barry has."

Mags stared through the windshield, her lips pressed tight. "Barry's stubborn, won't accept any help. Especially not from me. So I let him swear at me and overcharge me for expensive booze I don't drink."

"And think the worst of you, all the time never realizing that it's your own special brand of charity?"

"We take care of each other in this town. He's done more than that for others, and we're not going to let him shoulder this burden alone."

"Even if he wants to?"

"No one really wants to be alone, Dean. No one."

*****

Mags pulled the hum-vee around the house, past a large garden Dean hadn't seen earlier, and stopped beside a barn. He waited while she backed their two horses out of the trailer, and helped her lead them inside. Mags took all the stuff off them, then insisted that he help her brush them down. Talk about a filthy business.

On the way out of the barn, Mags swung toward the guest house. "I'm just going to check on Sarah."

Dean followed her, still ineffectually trying to wipe gooey slobber and matted horse hair off his shirt and jeans. He smelled of sweat and dust and horse. It was definitely time to do laundry. He grinned suddenly. It wouldn't cost him any quarters to do it here.

The guest house was obviously much newer construction than the main house. The carvings around the door were much less elaborate, but also much less worn by weather. Mags knocked on the door. It sprang open between the second and third knock. Mags' leather clad knuckles swished through the air, and Sarah Giles leaned back out of the way, though there really hadn't been any danger of a collision.

"Mags! I'm so glad you're here. It's so horrible!" Sarah caught Mags' hand and pulled her into the house without a single pause in her excited explanation. "I didn't have it in my heart to bother your poor grandmother, but I'm scared. Charlie went off to work at his usual time and Joseph and I dashed home to take care of the animals. My hens were scattered around the yard, every single one with a wrung neck. And I can't even clean and cook them now, because critters have already gotten at all the bodies."

She dragged them all the way to the sunny kitchen where she finally let go of Mags and slumped into a chair. Dean glanced at Mags, but she was focused entirely on her friend. They both took seats near the distraught woman. "There's not a whole dish in the house. I came right back and sent Joseph to help your grandmother with housework. I thought I'd bake some bread. I find it so soothing. We hadn't been here an hour when the knocking started."

"Knocking on the door?"

Sarah nodded at Mags. "I thought so, at first, but there was never anyone there. And then I realized it wasn't actually coming from the door, but the walls. I'd say it was the old timbers creaking, but we didn't hear any such thing all night. Old man Philips built this one solid as can be."

Dean leaned forward. "Were there any scratching sounds in the walls, like rats maybe? Any bad smells, or cold spots that seemed to come and go?"

Sarah shook her head, too upset, too worn out with worry to even be surprised or confused by his questions. "No, nothing like that. It was just the knocking. And then the mirrors started breaking. The one in the bathroom went first, then the one in the front room and then the bedrooms. Every bit of food in the house has gone off now, and my bread never rose at all." Tears started to gleam in her eyes, as if the very act of listing it all for someone was breaking the last of her walls. "I don't understand what's going on, Mags, and I'm afraid of what may come next. I was going to call Charlie, but my cell phone is missing, and the line here has gone dead. I think he may be safer if he just stays at work."

Dean knew with the electricity running to the guest house his EMF meter would be useless. He looked at Sarah. "Mind if I look around?"

She shrugged. "I'm just a guest here."

He glanced at Mags, who nodded, but kept her concentration on the gently weeping woman beside her. He rose from the kitchen table and prowled into the living room. The floors were hardwood, with thick rag rugs under the furniture. The shattered mirror had been carefully swept up, and Dean only glanced at the empty frame. He bent down to look under the coffee table, chairs, and couch. He poked his nose into the closet in the entry hall that turned out to be full of clean linens with little cloth baggies full of herbs tucked between, then moved on to the bathroom. 

Everything there was clean and neat, too. Again, the broken mirror had been swept up, the only evidence of something amiss was the empty frame on the wall above the sink. He glanced in the medicine cabinet, and poked around under the sink.

The bedrooms at least showed signs of habitation, with overnight bags laying on the floor. The smaller room, obviously inhabited by the Giles' son, actually had clothes strewn casually about. Small hooks on the walls showed where the mirrors once hung in each bedroom. He bent to look under the beds, and rifled through the drawers.

Making a mental note to check the kitchen thoroughly, he headed out the door. Dean paused to take in the carvings around the door frame. They all seemed to be of the local animal or decorative curlicue variety. They reminded him of the sort of thing he'd seen in some of the older and smaller New England towns back east. Moving slowly and carefully, he walked around the guest house, looking at the ground and walls. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, but he was certain it would jump out at him in some way if he saw it.

After a circle of the house, he went back inside. Sarah had stopped crying, thank goodness, and looked a lot less fragile than she had when he'd left. He didn't bother with trying to look casual as he looked under the table and chairs.

Mags was still trying to reassure her friend. "Come over and we'll make you a cup of tea, Sarah. We'll call Charlie and make sure he's safe."

"Where's Charlie work?"

Sarah glanced at him. "Hartsel. He's the head of IT for a law firm there."

"Probably safer there." Dean started opening cupboards to investigate the contents.

"He won't stay if he thinks Joseph and I are in danger."

"Will he believe you really are?"

She sniffed. "Whether I'm cursed, or it's some sort of vandals, he'll understand there's real danger."

Dean nodded in approval and checked under the sink.

It was Sarah, not Mags who asked the question. "What are you looking for?"

"If someone's casting spells to do this to you there'd be a hex bag somewhere here, somewhere close to you. And there'd have to be one at your house, too. It's an outside possibility, since I really doubt some skag witch had the time or opportunity to sneak in here and drop one off between the time you got here and this afternoon, but it's worth checking for anyway."

He looked at the women to catch their reaction. Mags looked thoughtful. Sarah just looked numb.

"I suppose someone could have come by while Joe and I went home to do chores."

"Gram would have noticed if someone drove up, but didn't come to the house. Her hearing's still inconveniently sharp."

Dean slammed the last cupboard door closed, then hooked a booted toe beneath the handle of the drawer under the oven. All that lay within was the usual pan with the wavy lid that he'd never understood the use of. He kicked it shut.

"I just don't have enough information here."

*****

Sheriff Winchester returned home that evening in something less than a gloriously happy mood. He collected Mags and Dean from the kitchen where Gram had put everyone to work helping prepare dinner. They left Gram there to keep an eye on Sarah and Joseph, who had been invited to the main house for the evening.

The sheriff led them to his office and shut the door. He seated himself behind the heavy desk and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the wooden surface.

"Talk to me, boy."

Dean sprawled in one of the facing chairs and sighed. "I don't know what it is, just a lot of things it's not. It's not a werewolf. The lunar cycle wasn't right, and his heart hadn't been ripped out. It's the right location for a wendigo, they love old mines and caves, but he'd have been carted off for eating later, not slashed to ribbons and left to rot. Mags said it's a 'them', and that it's the same 'them' that's scaring the hell out of Sarah. I'd say it's not likely to be a ghost, they tend to be anchored to a location or item. I can't rule out a poltergeist, but it's not acting like any I've encountered before and I've never heard of a gang of them working together."

Paps' reaction, much to Dean's surprise, was limited to a grunt and a brusque nod. "And how do we find out?"

"Uh, if you had a newspaper office or a library, that's where I'd start. We usually check for history, see if this has ever happened before."

"You, and your father and brother?"

"Yes, sir."

Paps was silent, staring at his desktop, brows furrowed. When Dean shot a glance at her, Mags was waiting calmly in the other chair, no sign of apprehension, and certainly no sign that she thought he was completely and dangerously off his rocker. Finally Paps shook his head and looked up at Dean.

"I can't recall anything like this happening before, nor stories of such. Things like that tend to stick in the memory, and young boys like to repeat them on dark, windy nights."

"Well, then we'd research the location itself, see what might have happened in the past to maybe cause something like this."

"But which location? Sarah's place, or the mine?"

Mags spoke up. "Start with the mine. It was sort of ... aged, or steeped in the anger. What I felt from the mirror fragment from Sarah's place was lighter, much newer."

Dean looked a little brighter at having a thread to pursue. "Then whatever this is started at the mine, started with Marcus Billings. We need to look into the history of the mine. Deaths are usually involved."

Mags shared a glance with her grandfather. "That'll mean speaking with Millie Lowry."

"She still got that grouch on when it comes to you?"

Mags grimaced. "Yeah." She rolled her eyes, then caught Dean's look of inquiry. "She thinks her husband's still holding a torch for me. We dated briefly in high school, senior year. Didn't last long. Mostly I think he was curious to see if the rumors were true." She shrugged. "Millie seems to think I'm just looking for a chance to steal Greg back."

"Are you?"

"Please, the guy freaked the first time I read his car. Begged me not to tell a soul what I saw."

A wide, leering grin spread across Dean's face. "And what did you see?"

"I swore not to tell a soul what I saw."

Dean made puppy dog eyes are her, but Mags ignored him. "He's still a bit skittish, but he'll make her be civil and talk to us, if he's there."

"Do we go over tonight?"

Mags answered Dean's question with a negative shake of her head. "No, in the morning will be better."

The Devil Went Down to Georgia sizzled out of Paps' pocket, and he fished out his cell. The wailing fiddles were silenced as he flipped it open.

"Winchester here. Hiya, Doc." The sheriff listened, occasionally nodding to himself and making 'go on' noises to someone who was presumably acting as the coroner for the county. "Thanks for the heads up, Doc. I appreciate it."

He flipped the phone shut and slipped it back into his pocket.

"That was Doc Burns. Says he found a small knife tangled in poor Marcus' clothes. Said it looked like it was made of bronze." He raised an eyebrow at Dean.

"How small?"

"The length of his hand."

Dean shook his head. "Nope, I've still got nothing."

"How'd you get involved in this sort of thing, boy?"

Dean stood from the chair and prowled the room, unhappy nervous energy forcing him into motion. "Something bad killed my mom. Dad's been looking for it ever since. He taught Sam and me everything he's found out about things that go bump in the night so we can protect ourselves."

"And those who can, do."

Dean nodded. It had never been a conscious decision. He knew how to kill evil things that most people didn't even believe existed; of course he was going to fight them.

"What brought you to this town, boy?"

Dean grinned, his default expression. "Not a damn thing. I'd just finished a job and was headed north to meet back up with dad. I wasn't in a hurry, so I decided to take the scenic route." He shrugged. "Sure didn't expect to stumble on another job so soon. Certainly didn't expect to find family. Dad and Sam and the road. That's all I've known since I was four."

Mags reached over and gave his hand a squeeze. He didn't shake her off--that would be rude--but it wasn't something he was comfortable with either and he pulled his hand back as soon as it was marginally tactful to do so. "So, what next?"

Paps sat up and rolled his shoulders. "Dinner, if I'm not mistaken. 'Sufficient unto the day', boy."

"I never turn down the offer of a home-cooked meal."

Paps heaved himself up out of his chair. "Definitely a Winchester."


	6. Ghosts Don't Bleed

#

The knocking on the front door interrupted a story Bobby was telling about his roommate at college. Jake rose from his seat, already snickering. He'd obviously heard the story before.

"I'll get it."

The knock came again, louder this time. Then someone started knocking on the door leading into the greenhouse, then the kitchen door that led out into the yard between the main house, the guest house, and the barn. The knocking grew louder and more insistent.

Sarah Giles pressed her hands to her ears and leaned against her husband, sobbing. "It's happening again!"

Her son Joseph was taking it well for a kid of only ten, though his eyes were huge. Dean gave the kid's shoulder a squeeze.

When the greenhouse door slammed open the force of it was enough to rattle the dishes on the table. Dean stood and spun around the chair, his gun sliding into his hand with the smooth precision only years of familiarity could grant. Paps was slower to react, but not by much, joining the younger man in placing himself between the sound and the rest of his family. Charlie Giles half rose from his chair, expression confused, but he kept his arm around his shaking wife.

"What's going on?"

The other doors slammed open one after another.

"What on earth was that?"

"It's them again," Sarah howled.

"Quiet!" Dean snapped. He was listening as hard as he could. He knew that years of listening to Metallica far too loud weren't conducive to hearing small sounds, but worried, shouting husbands and their hysterical wives didn't help either. He could hear the night insects singing, no wait, he couldn't. There were no sounds coming from outside, nothing at all. What was the sound then?

Dean took a cautious step forward, head tilted as he listened hard. Was it small piping voices? Many small voices, shouting to each other?

Something small and fast buzzed past him. Dean's instinct was to follow the movement and fire, but there were far too many civilians behind him. Joseph shouted in pain, a line of blood welling up on his wrist, and Sarah shrieked in terror. Charlie Giles pulled his wife up out of her seat and tried to shield her with his body. A clean slice appeared in the man's slacks, just above the back of his knee. Gram, with surprising strength for a woman her age, leaned over the table, took hold of Joseph's shirt and hauled the boy across the table to her, heedless of the dishes the movement displaced and sent crashing to the floor.

Dean's head bobbed and his eyes darted back and forth as he tried to track the swift movements of the intruder. No, intruders. He could pick out at least four separate sources of motion, not including Charlie Giles who was desperately turning this way and that, trying in vain to stay between them and his wife, and Mags who'd ushered her brothers up onto the top of the sideboard and was flapping a hand towel about her legs as though swatting at flies. Paps was standing still, trying to find something to fight. 

Dean blocked out the hysterical weeping and shrieking, the shouts of surprise and pain. He watched a moment more, aimed his gun, paused, then squeezed the trigger.

Everyone twitched at the explosion of sound, but more importantly to Dean, there was also a high pitched scream. The extra motion disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. All that remained was two shaken families, and the smell of cordite in a confined space.

*****

"Everyone just calm down." Paps' bellow brought silence, except for Sarah Giles' hiccuping sobs, though she made an effort to muffle them against her husband's shoulder.

Gram stood up from her chair, finally releasing Joseph. Dean noted the boy only had the one cut. Being off the floor and blocked by the table must have kept him out of reach of whatever it was that had come after the Giles family. They were the only ones who had been hurt.

"What was that, dad?"

"What in hell-"

"Oh Charlie, I tried to tell you-"

Gram spoke across the sudden clatter of voices. "Jake, first aid kit. Bobby, you and Mags clear the table. Sarah, Charlie, sit down and try to calm yourselves, we're safe for the moment and you boy's not hurt bad."

Dean left her to it. He didn't want to try and explain what he didn't quite understand himself. Instead, he stepped over to the china cabinet that had backstopped his shot. Whatever it was he'd either only winged it, or it wasn't dense enough to prevent a through-and-through. His bullet was lodged in the thick dark wood of the cabinet door. Around it there was a delicate spray of pale, silvery blue drops.

Paps came up behind him and leaned over to look.

"Hell of a shot, boy, fast as those things were moving."

Dean gave a one shouldered shrug. "Just a matter of leading them to account for the speed and knowing where they were likely to be headed next. What do you make of that?"

"I suspect it's blood, boy."

"Blood's usually red."

Paps turned his head and met Dean's eyes. "Human blood's red because of the iron in it."

Dean raised his eyebrows at that, then nodded as he thought it through. "I can tell you one thing for sure, ghosts don't bleed."

Paps holstered his gun and moved back to the table to help Gram tend cuts. Sarah and Charlie both had multiple slashes from those tiny knives. From the sound of it, stitches were going to be needed for at least one of them. Dean squatted down next to the cabinets and dabbed up a bit of the pale, shimmery substance with a fingertip. He rubbed it between his finger and thumb, noting that it was thicker than human blood. An investigative sniff revealed not the coppery tang he was used to, but something almost... minty. 

That was just plain weird.

Dean stood. Of course, weird was his stock in trade, so nothing new there. He tucked his own gun away and walked over to the table.

"Now what, boy?"

"Normally I'd say salt at all the thresholds, doors and windows both, any entrance into the house; but this isn't any ghost, angry or otherwise. Guns did the job of scaring them off, and they used the doors. I suggest we all pile into a room with only one entrance for the night. You and I, Paps, can take turns watching while the others sleep."

Paps nodded. "I agree, except Bobby and Mags can handle firearms just fine. They'll spell us so we can all get at least a little sleep."

Dean glanced at the three siblings. "What about Jake?"

"I wouldn't trust him with a gun if it was world war three." Paps snorted in disgust. "Kid can't hit the broad side of a barn with a rock, let alone a bullet."

Dean shot a glance at Jake, who grimaced but nodded in confirmation.

"Complete lack of hand-eye coordination."

"Harsh."

"Totally. I suck serious vacuum at first person shooters."

*****

Dean retrieved his duffel and everyone headed upstairs. The intruders had managed a little vandalism before, during, or after the attack in the dining room. Mirrors and the glass in picture frames were smashed to shards. 'Betrayers' and other less legible things had been carved in walls. And every bit of silver that hadn't been in the dining room or on someone's person was gone as if it had never been. 

That last was discovered when Gram ducked into the master bedroom to drag the comforter off the bed. She took it calmly, shutting the lid on her antique jewelry box and gathering up the pillows in her arms to bring with them into the only bedroom without a balcony, but Dean could see the unshed tears shining in her eyes.

Sarah and Charlie Giles were installed on the twin bed. They tried to give it to Gram, but she demurred. Camp beds were made on the floor, from blankets hurriedly pulled off other beds or collected from the linen closet. Jake stayed close to Joseph, while Dean armed Bobby and Mags from the duffel.

"Here, swap out the shells in the sawed-off."

"Is-is this rock salt?"

Dean grinned at Bobby. "Best round there is for hunting ghosts."

The younger boy grinned back, but it faded quickly. "Too bad that's not what we've got."

"That's why you're loading buck shot. And be damned careful where you aim it."

Bobby shot him an offended glare, but changed out the rounds with gratifying speed and efficiency. 

"What else you got in there, boy?" Paps asked, eyeing the bulges that poked against the faded green fabric.

"Everything you need to hunt things that go bump in the night: salt, lighter fluid, matches, silver rounds--except they're not here anymore, chalk, holy water, flashlights, extra batteries, extra magazines, folding shovel, EMF meter, that sort of thing."

"And enough guns to arm the entire town."

Dean glanced up at Mags and handed her a second magazine for the nine mil he'd armed her with. "You never know when you might need a spare."


	7. Old Grudges

#

The night passed quietly enough, with only snores and the returned night noises breaking the silence. Dean woke stiff and a little sore from spending the night propped in a corner with his arms across his drawn up knees. He'd slept in worse positions, however, and began stretching out abused muscles before he'd even gained his feet.

He was gratified to note that both Mags and Bobby were wide awake, their guns still trained on the doorway, with clear lines of fire. 

When Bobby had relieved Paps the night before, the older man had snuggled up next to his wife on the floor. He lay there now, an arm flung protectively over her, holding her close to him. Mr. and Mrs Giles were clutching each other tightly on the bed, still asleep, no doubt exhausted by the fear and panic of the night before. Everyone had edged away to give Mags a clear space of her own where she wouldn't accidentally come in contact with someone. Jake had curled himself around young Joseph, his own body between the boy and the door. Dean had slept exactly that way more times than he could count as a child, curled around the body of his younger brother. Anything to protect Sammy.

Dawn was lighting the sky beyond the lacy curtains, but everyone else was still firmly asleep. Dean let them lay, and picked his way over and around the still forms toward the door. Mags rose and joined him.

"Bobby can stay with them until they wake up," she whispered. "I'll go get some coffee and breakfast started."

"Excellent. Caffeinate me, woman."

She elbowed him in the ribs as she squeezed past him out the door. "I'd use the shower fast, if I was you. Once folks start waking up the hot water will disappear faster than those things last night."

Dean ignored the dig. Spending days at a time on the road, he was used to feeling stale and 'fragrant', and a cold shower, while not his favorite, was far from the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Instead, he followed his cousin down the stairs and into the kitchen. 

Without so many people in the room, screaming and floundering and carrying on, he could focus a little better. He found a gash in one of the wooden chairs where an assailant had missed a swing. Metal glittered in the cut; metal with a goldish hue. Gold, and silver for that matter, was too soft to take an edge. Odds were high that it was bronze.

He looked around for other traces, signs that might tell him what exactly he was dealing with. That it was physical beings was obvious, and definitely non-human, which ruled out a lot of the things he'd already ruled out himself: werewolves, ghosts, and wendigoes. However, that left a whole lot of gaping wide territory to cover and eliminate.

Following a hunch, Dean checked the kitchen door. There was nothing wrong with the hinges or jamb. That meant the knob had been turned and the door opened perfectly normally. The knob was fairly new, the brushed aluminum still shiny with only a few small signs of wear.

"Knobs and knives, so hands... non-human hands."

"What was that?"

Dean turned to Mags where she was cracking eggs into a large bowl. "Just thinking out loud." He watched her for a moment. "Would you be willing to read the doors?"

"Why the doors?" she asked, obviously side-stepping the question.

"It's the only thing I'm certain they've touched with their hands."

"I'm not sure it'll tell you anything new."

"But will you try?"

She stared at him for several long heartbeats, then reluctantly nodded. "If you need me to." He gave her a return nod of thanks and continued his investigation. The door leading into the green house was in the same state as the kitchen door, but with less weathering. The front door was where things changed.

The door itself was fine, but the dark wood around the latch was splintered. The door had been forced open, without resorting to use of the knob. The knob was one of those black painted wrought iron curlicues. A flash of something pale in the middle of the dark exterior made Dean step through the door to the porch. Several of the decorative carvings around the door had been crudely hacked away, revealing the less weathered wood beneath.

Was that why the knocking had started at the front door? To conceal the sounds of vandalism? 

Dean took a walk around the house, looking for more destruction. Everything in the garden patch looked wilted and dying. All the vehicles parked in front of the house had the slight tilt that would indicate flat tires. Just as well that he hadn't brought his baby to the house from town, she might have ended up damaged in some way.

He poked his head into the guest house. It was a disaster area. The rugs on the hardwood floor had been shredded beyond recognition. Shards of glass and broken dishes were scattered everywhere, glinting and sparkling in the morning light. Clothes had been reduced to rags and flung helter-skelter about the place, and 'Betrayers' had been carved deep into all the walls.

_Someone's feeling hard done by._

*****

Millie Lowry was not pleased to see them. Dean's first clue was when she slammed the door shut in Mags' face. His cousin hadn't even had time to say 'hello' first. He shifted her aside and knocked on the door himself. The door flew open and Millie slapped him hard.

"You bitch!"

When she saw she'd hit the wrong target, Millie didn't so much as hesitate. She tried to shove past him to get at Mags, so he grabbed her by the arms to restrain the obviously crazed woman. Her dishwater blond hair lashed across his face as she whipped around to face the object of her anger.

"How dare you do this to us! You can't scare me away! Greg's mine and you can't drive us apart or scare us out of town!"

Paps, who had been standing unobtrusively off to the side, stepped between the two women. "What seems to be the problem, Millie?"

"Don't you 'Millie' me, Sheriff. I demand you arrest that malicious little-"

Mags leaned around her grandfather. "I'd watch who you were calling what names, Millie. Glass houses and all that."

"What is this about, Mrs. Lowry?"

"That troublemaker you're so proud of broke into my house last night, Sheriff. She broke things, stole things, and carved up every wall on the first floor."

Dean took a step into the doorway, dragging the irate woman, who couldn't be more than three or four years older than his cousin, with him. Sure enough, there in the entryway, gouged deep into the drywall was the word 'Betrayers'.

"Looks like they hit this place last night, too, Sheriff."

"Too? What do you mean 'too'?"

"What he means, Mrs. Lowry," Paps intoned solemnly, "is that every dish in your house is broken, every mirror smashed, every bit of portable gold or silver stolen, and the word 'Betrayers' carved in every vertical surface."

She gaped at him, her struggles ceasing. "How could you know that? Everything on the first floor is exactly as you say."

"Just the first floor?" Dean shared a glance with Mags and the sheriff. He released Millie Lowry and stepped into the house. He prowled into the living room, with its two-story windows shedding morning light across the pale carpet. In the corner a wrought iron spiral staircase curled up to the second floor's balcony. It appeared to be the only way up or down.

"Iron again."

"What was that?" Millie had followed him into the house and stood confused and still a little angry, arms folded across her chest.

"Was anyone hurt last night?"

She shook her head. "No. Greg and I were up very early yesterday morning, so we were already in bed and asleep when the pounding started." She shot a venomous glare a Mags, who was still keeping her grandfather between herself and the other woman. "There was banging and crashing and all sorts of horrible noises and then, just as suddenly, it all stopped. We didn't dare come down until morning."

Sheriff Winchester nodded. "Probably just as well. They cut up Charlie and Sarah Giles last night at our place. Stitches were required. That's sort of why we're here to speak to you this morning, Millie."

She stared at him, her mouth open. "I certainly didn't do it, Sheriff, just ask Greg."

He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I never thought you had, Millie, but we need to talk to you. The ones who did this also killed Marcus Billings. We found him up at your grandpappy's mine."

"Old Man Billings? But I spoke to him..." Dean watched her trail off as her mind raced down that road and she came to the conclusion that she might have been the last one to speak to the man before he died. Her hand reached out, flailing until she touched the arm of the sofa, which she slumped into. 

"You remember, Sheriff, I called you to tell you I'd given him permission to go up and explore the mine."

"Yes, ma'am, so's I'd not arrest him for trespass again."

She nodded numbly. "You know how he was, making sure the wording of what he was asking was just right. I gave him permission to 'freely come and go about the mine' as he wished." A shudder ran through her, but she pulled herself together and looked up. "Was someone camping in the mine, or something?"

Sheriff Winchester sighed. "Something like that."

"Millie, how much do you know about the history of the mine?"

She turned to face Dean, taking deep breaths and self-consciously smoothing her calf-length denim skirt. "Loads. My grandfather loved to talk about it."

Dean crouched down on his heels in front of the couch, deliberately making her taller than he was. Her home had been invaded and vandalized, and now a woman she hated had come with bad news. Well, Mags hadn't actually brought the bad news, but in his experience women attached blame wherever it suited them. She would need a perceived psychological advantage.

"Did anyone ever die in the mine?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing like that. It was almost a point of pride. There were a couple of close calls with cave-ins before they got the timbering right, but everyone made it out when the wood started creaking loudly. The only injury was an Irish man, O'Reilly, who got beaned on the back of the head by a bouncing stone. But a knot on the skull was the worst of it."

"Then why did the mine shut down?"

"It just reached the point of diminishing returns. Great grandad just shut it down one day. He locked the gates and paid off the Cousin Jacks with his thanks and a small bonus each."

Over Millie's shoulder Dean could see Mags open her mouth to speak, but Dean shook his head at her. It was probably better not to remind Millie that she was there.

"What are Cousin Jacks?"

"Oh, uh, Cornish miners. The uh, the name comes from their way of getting friends hired. If it looked like there might be more job openings they'd soon enough be telling you about their 'cousin Jack' who was also looking for work. They were in high demand here in Colorado, and out in Nevada and California during the rush. Lots of hard rock mining experience."

Dean was silent a moment, taking that in. "Cornish. That's like Celtic, right?"

"Yes." Millie nodded. "That's right."

Dean rose to his feet, muscles and joints still protesting from prior abuse, and began pacing.

"But what does that have to do with poor Mister Billings?"

"Bronze knives. No iron. They came out of a mine worked by Cornishmen."

Millie choked on a laugh. "Oh, come on! You don't honestly think Old Man Billings was killed by tommy knockers, do you?"

Dean stopped his pacing and met her gaze. "I'm assuming you don't mean the aliens in the Stephen King movie."

"Don't be ridiculous. Tommy knockers are mine spirits."

Mags stepped up beside Paps. "Some say they're part of the fair folk."

"Fair folk, like elves?" Dean asked for clarification.

Millie sneered. "Elves killed Mr. Billings? Sheriff, you're not honestly paying any attention to this, are you?"

Everyone else ignored her as Mags answered Dean's question. "Sort of. The Celts lumped elves and goblins and trolls and dwarves into the umbrella term 'fair folk'."

"So, what are these tommy knockers?"

"They were a combination mischief maker and good luck charm. Which they were at the moment depended on their mood. Miners who left gifts of food or drink for them earned their favor and would be warned of cave-ins and the like, while miners who earned their displeasure would have their tools stolen, be tripped in the dark, and in extreme cases, the tommy knockers would actually cause a cave-in to punish them."

"And these tommy knockers, they don't like iron?"

Millie sputtered indignantly and made to rise from the couch. Dean absently lay a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down.

"Very few of the fair folk could stand its touch, according to the stories. The purer the better, but anything with iron in it could make them uncomfortable."

"So a copper jacketed slug..."

"It'll hurt them, but they'll heal, and quickly."

Dean turned his gaze from Mags to Paps. "Anywhere in town we can get some iron?"

Paps jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Farrier. I could probably get a stack of used horseshoes."

Dean gave a huff of a laugh and shook his head. "A horseshoe over the door. Of course. We'll need as many as we can get. Got to pick a spot and defend it. Iron at every window and door. I've a few iron bullets, but not enough to go around for everyone."

Paps nodded and reached for his cell phone.

Throwing Dean's hand off, Millie thrust herself to her feet. "You're all crazy. There's no such thing as tommy knockers. They're just a silly superstition left over from people who were too ignorant to know better. Sheriff, your troublemaker did all this. I wouldn't put it past her to have killed poor Mr. Billings, either."

Dean turned and stared her into silence. "When they come back you'll be grateful to have Mags helping defend you, lady. Your 'silly superstitions' sliced Old Man Billings to ribbons before he could take more than a couple steps, so a little respect might be in order."

Behind him Mags wrapped her arms around herself. "Horseshoes might keep them out for a few days, but we can't stay barricaded in forever."

"I'll think of something."


	8. Knowing is Half the Battle

#

In the end it took the Sheriff calling Greg Lowry and explaining to him that he and his wife were in danger. He came back from his office in Hartsel early to make his wife pack an overnight bag and climb into the Hummer. Their own compact, a strictly town and highway vehicle, would never have made it up the road to the Winchester home. Millie was not happy to be in the same town, let alone the same vehicle with Mags, but her husband kept her calm, or at least quiet on the matter.

"We keep meaning to borrow Bob Philpot's rig to grade the ruts out and then have it paved, but we've just never gotten around to it," Mags explained as they bounced down the 'road'. 

Dean and Mags were sitting up front with Paps, and in any other vehicle it would have been a squeeze, but in the wide-body Hummer they had plenty of space. The Lowrys were in the back seats, their bags rattling around in the cargo area along with several boxes of used horseshoes. The farrier, Ed, hadn't said anything other than "Hep yersel', Sheriff," and jerked a blackened thumb at a gently rusting discard pile. The barn air had been thick with the tang of iron and horse musk.

As soon as the Hummer pulled to a stop in the driveway, Mags hustled the Lowrys into the house while Paps and Dean grabbed the boxes of horseshoes. 

They clattered inside and Paps immediately bellowed for the twins and put them on horseshoe detail.

"Boy?"

"Every window and door," Dean instructed. "Every way in or out of the house."

The twins nodded and hurried off, faces solemn, while Dean went in search of his duffel. He only had one clip of pure iron rounds with him, and he made a mental note to ask Pastor Jim to set him up with some more as soon as possible, but he did have plenty of steel-jacketed bullets. It wasn't ideal, but things seldom were on a hunt, especially an accidental hunt.

When he returned the 'guests' had all congregated in the living room to stay out of the way of everyone else. The Lowrys and the Gileses were staring at one another in an awkward silence. Both Lowrys were taking note of the bandages, however.

"Greg."

"Charlie."

Gram had cleaned up the mess while Dean had been in town with Paps and Mags, but mirror frames outlined empty space, and the family pictures had been stacked neatly in plastic bins and then piled in a corner to protect them until this was all over. The damage that could be covered up was, the rest had been minimized as best they could manage. Dean could see that Millie was taking note of that as well. The room was a lot more barren and a lot less welcoming than it had been before.

When Dean stepped into the middle of the room, they all focused on him. "Okay folks. I don't really care if you believe me or not. You're in danger and you're here for your protection." He pinned Millie with a stern look. "No, it's not Mags that's doing this, just ask Sarah and Charlie there. She was standing in front of her brothers, protecting them, when you were attacked last night. We're trying to figure out what's causing this and make it stop. In the mean time, do exactly what you're told, even if you don't like the person doing the telling."

Millie looked rebellious, but it was her husband who actually asked the question. "Just who are you?"

"Dean. I'm a cousin of Mags'."

Millie made a face. "Great, another Winchester."

*****

They actually made it all the way through dinner this time. Paps and Bobby added another leaf to the table to make room for the additional people. Gram spread a simple, but ample dinner on the table. Dean dug into the roast chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, steamed greens and fresh bread like he hadn't eaten in days.

_I really could get used to this home cooking all the time._

The meal itself was full of long awkward silences and knotting tension. It was just as well no one was interested in talking, because it was the sort of atmosphere screaming arguments and violence thrived in, only a couple ill-considered words away. Dean watched everyone, but everyone else seemed intent on studying their food as though there might be a test later.

And afterwards there was cobbler instead of pie; Dean considered it an acceptable substitute.

Millie Lowry couldn't bring herself to thank Gram for the meal, but Sarah Giles had no such reservations.

"Thank you, Mrs. Winchester. That was love-"

Mrs. Giles jolted up out of her chair as a loud knock interrupted her. Her arms had automatically gone around her son and she'd hauled him half out of his chair with an oof of surprise as she rose. There was a long moment of breathless silence as everyone listened hard for a repeat. Everyone except Jake, who was choking on suppressed laughter.

Mags elbowed her brother sharply in the ribs.

"Not funny."

Bobby was having a hard time keeping his lips straight while his twin flushed scarlet. Both boys coughed on their desire to laugh when Paps joined in the glaring.

"It was a little bit funny."

Then Joseph began to laugh, still dangling awkwardly in his mother's arms. There were a few scattered almost laughs, quickly smothered again behind pressed lips, and Sarah relaxed back into her chair.

Dean caught Jake's eye and gave him a nod. The tension was broken, at least a little. The last thing they needed was for everyone's nerves to be stretched to the snapping point before anything even happened. And he could feel in his gut that something was definitely going to happen.

Another loud knock earned Jake another elbow from Mags. "You're pushing it."

"Hey, it wasn't me."

A second knock came, this time from the region of the front door.

"Oh no!"

Dean raised his voice to cut across Sarah's wailing. "Calmly, everyone to the living room."

Gram and Jake took charge of the civilians and Dean jerked a head at Mags and Bobby. "Watch 'em." Both his cousins drew their weapons and retreated with the Lowrys and Gileses. Once horseshoes had been placed in front of all the windows and doors there were still plenty left over. Dean had the twins set up a fall-back position in the living room, a large semicircle of iron around the fireplace, just in case. He'd have worried about the chimney, but Paps had reassured him that the bird-guard grating a third of the way down was made of re-bar.

The knocking increased until it achieved a jackhammer rhythm. In the living room Sarah had at least subsided from wails to low moaning whimpers. Even over the thunderous shuddering noise of the pounding on the doors, Dean was certain he could hear the piping voices lifted in rage. At his shoulder his great uncle had his gun lifted and ready, steady as a rock, watching the front door while he watched the one in the kitchen. He was glad the older man was there to help.

"I don't think the doors are gonna hold, Paps."

"Agreed."

"Can't help but remember that Old Man Billings didn't make it very far."

"Discretion and valor, boy."

"If that means 'retreat', let's go."

Step by step, shoulders pressed together, the men moved from the hall to the living room. Dean kept his eyes moving, but he didn't rely on them solely. He listened as carefully as he could for noises that weren't the pounding of dozens of fists on thick wooden doors. _Thank goodness for old-style construction. Modern hollow doors would be splinters by now._

The doors might have been solid aged oak, but the frames they were set into were thinner and only held together with a little old glue and some nails. With a high, snapping crack, the frame in the kitchen gave way, followed swiftly by the door leading into the greenhouse. The front door gave an ominous creak, but held and fell silent as the tommy knockers raced over the two fallen doors, safely insulated from the horseshoes on the floor by the thick wood.

"Run," Dean advised. 

He gave Paps a shove to emphasize his point, then paused a moment to fire off a round. One of the piping voices rose even higher in a shriek of pain, then Dean hissed in pain himself as something slashed the back of his calf. He whipped around, trying to keep his back away from them, but the swift blurs were everywhere. Another slash, and he stumbled to his right. Mags was shouting his name and Millie was babbling that this wasn't real, couldn't be real. Another slash caught the side of his left knee, the very lack of pain at first evidence of just how sharp the little bronze knives were. And then Paps' big hand clamped around his arm and hauled him over the line of iron on the floor.

"Shoot back from a place of safety, boy. Didn't your pappy ever teach you that?"

"Safety is sometimes hard to find, in this line of work, Paps."

Dean grimaced at the stinging lines of fire on his legs, but kept his eyes and his focus on what was going on outside their little half circle. Over and over again one of the dark blurs would streak toward them, only to streak away again as though rebounding off a wall. High shrieks and cries of frustration sounded all around them. Mags and Bobby stood beside Dean and Paps at the border.

A wooden cutting board came sailing out of the kitchen, borne aloft by two small blurs. Dean took careful aim, leading his target by a wider margin than usual because of their speed, and put two iron rounds through the front blur. The cutting board shot forward, flipped end over end and Dean twisted sideways to let it sail past. It clipped Millie, who howled in fear and outrage. The sharp slap from Gram that followed cut her off instantly, and Dean couldn't repress a slight grin. It seemed there was no such thing as a wallflower Winchester, even past the age of fifty.

For a moment, the dark, lumpen shape lay on the floor. A heartbeat later it was carried away, leaving only a large splash of silvery blood behind it.

"They're trying to get over the iron," Mags pointed out.

"I don't think they'll try that tack again, girl. The boy's got his pappy's gift, sure enough."

Denied their prey, the tommy knockers were taking out their rage on the house. Drywall and wood siding were gouged deep. The sounds of destruction from the kitchen were an unending series of shatterings and crashes. The furniture outside the ring of horseshoes was violently shredded then reduced to splinters. Over it all, and being etched deeper and deeper into the walls, was the single word: Betrayers.

*****

"Well, that was fun." Greg was trying to put as good a light as possible on their survival, but Millie was obviously scared and certain it was all Mags' fault somehow. "It's been a while since I camped out on someone's living room floor." Dean heard several loud pops as the man stretched.

"It was hard and cold," Millie complained. Greg shot her a quelling look, and she resentfully turned away.

"At least you got to sleep." Luckily Mags' low mutter went unheard by Millie. Everyone who could be trusted with a weapon had stayed on guard all night, even after the tommy knockers had tired of their wanton destruction and departed. 

Dean crouched near the border of their safety ring, thinking hard. He turned to look at Millie. She felt his gaze and stared back mulishly.

"What?"

"Tell me again, what exactly happened when your grandfather closed the mine?"

"He just closed it. Paid off the miners and locked the gate."

"First thing in the morning. No warning at all?"

She shook her head. "No. He just decided it wasn't worth it anymore and sent everyone home."

He took that in, turned it over in his mind. There was something there.

"You got a thought, boy?"

Dean nodded slowly. "I think I need a library."

"The nearest one's in Hartsel."

"You don't need to go that far."

Dean focused on Greg. "Why's that?"

"My laptop's out in the car. I can hook it to my sat phone for internet access."

Dean smiled. "You are the man. Get that thing in here and fired up. I'll see if I can get this figured out."

"How is my husband's laptop computer going to solve this?" Millie's following laugh had a hysterical edge to it. "Are you going to beat them all to death with it?"

"G.I. Joe wasn't wrong, lady. Knowing's half the battle. We think we know what happened, and we think we know who's doing it, so we need to figure out why, and then, maybe, we can make it stop, since I'm not crazy about the idea of holing up here with you every night until we manage to kill every last one of them."


	9. The Way to a Man's Heart

#

Paps had left early with the hum-vee, then returned and threw a huge, heavy drop cloth on the living room floor, from whence still came the flashes and sparks of welding. Charlie Giles was helping him with whatever he was doing. After several hours hunched over the laptop Dean wandered into the kitchen where Gram and the twins were sweeping the last of the debris from the floor. The cupboard doors would all need to be replaced or refinished or re-somethinged, the table was canted, one leg shorter than the others, but other than that the damage looked relatively minor.

"All cleaned up?"

"Just about. We'll mop, then we'll be right as rain."

"So you can bake?"

Gram smiled at him fondly. "Would you like another pie tonight?"

Dean grinned. "I'd love one, but what I need you to do is start baking everything you can. Pies, cakes, cookies, cobblers, as many as you can as fast as you can."

Mags came up behind him then. "This about the tommy knockers, Dean?"

He turned to look at her and nodded. "Yeah. I think I can make this stop."

"How? With Gram's very fine pies?"

"Partly."

"What's the other part?"

He didn't answer, just grinned at her. "Don't you need to go buy a bottle from Barry?"

She grimaced. "Rats. I forgot to get one yesterday, too."

"I'll go with you and we can each buy one. You said you're not drinking the booze. Please tell me you're stashing it."

She leveled a suspicious look at him. "In the barn. Gram uses it for cooking once in a while, but not nearly as fast as I buy it. Why?"

"It'll probably be needed to wash down Gram's pies."

"What are you up to, Dean?"

"My second favorite way to settle an argument."

*****

"Are you sure you don't want more help moving these bottles? The sun's going down quick."

"I don't even want _you_ out here."

"I'll take that as a yes."

Dean and Mags were making yet another trip from the barn to the yard, carrying several unopened bottles of expensive booze each. Dean set his carefully on the ground. It really wouldn't do to break one now. Mags managed to find a bit more room for her own on the hastily set up picnic table. Most of the table's surface was covered with baked goods of every description. Knowing what might be at stake, Dean hadn't even been tempted to hold back so much as a single cookie for himself. Gram, Sarah Giles, the twins, and Greg Lowry had mixed and stirred and cooked until there wasn't anything left in the whole house to hold any more food. Dinner had been sandwiches and lemonade. There was no dessert, or at least no dessert to spare.

Mags stood back and surveyed the collection of food and liquor. "Do you really think this is going to work?"

"If you've got a better idea, let's hear it before they get here."

She shook her head. "I don't, but it seems..."

"I've done crazier things. Don't stress it." Dean headed toward the barn for what he hoped was the last load. It was true that the last lingering sunlight was failing fast. Mags fell in beside him. "See, I read a couple of stories about how the miners asked that a mine be reopened for a single day so that the tommy knockers could move on to other mines. Millie's great grandad shut the mine with no advance warning to anyone. Those things have been trapped in there ever since, and are a bit unhappy about it. I get that. They're so upset they kill the first person they encounter, involved or not. Great grandad's dead, so they head for the nearest member of the bloodline."

"And Sarah Giles?"

"Her dad's got a formally worded verbal contract with the family to do with the mine. They're connected now. But the first night they didn't attack the main house or go after anyone other than the Gileses or the Lowrys. We're in the way now, so we're fair game."

"Oh, that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, knowing that."

Dean shrugged at her and handed her three bottles, then scooped up the remaining four, two in each hand. "Go back in the house with the others."

"I'm sorry. I love the idea of keeping my skin intact, but nothing's going to make me lock myself inside a re-bar cage with Millie Lowry. Paps did the best he could, but he didn't have time to make it very large."

All the horseshoes freed up by Paps' hurried anti-elf bunker had been moved outside to enclose the picnic table. Mags and Dean were the only ones waiting outside for darkness to fall. Everyone else was tucked safe inside those iron bars.

"So, now we wait?"

Dean leaned a hip against the table. "I hate waiting."

*****

The gibbous moon had cleared the treetops, painting the yard silvery, when they finally came. The tommy knockers didn't ooze up out of the ground, but they were so similarly colored Dean figured it would be an easy mistake to make. They rose up from the shadows of rocks, from root tangles and garden furrows. And for creatures tied so closely to the earth, they could seriously book it when they wanted. 

Streaks of brownish grey movement zipped past his small refuge into the house. The doors had been left wide open since there was no point in trying to keep them out. Cries of frustration rose inside, and then the whirls of motion were back outside, circling the flimsier barrier of horseshoes.

Dean kept his hand off his gun. Shooting the ambassadors wasn't any way to start negotiations.

"Yo."

Mags shot him a look, but he ignored it. Sure, it wasn't the most formal or diplomatic way to try and get them to talk, but it got the job done. A single blur halted a wary distance from the edge of the iron circle. In the soft moonlight it looked like a four-year-old's mud doll. It was lumpen, if proportionate, with twigs or roots for hair and ragged scraps of cloth for clothing. In one hand a gleaming bronze knife reflected the moonlight.

"Betrayers!"

The voice was high and piping, but understandable.

"Hey, no one in this house locked you in that mine. The man who did it's dead and dust."

"Sins of the fathers," was the answering cry. "Betrayal must be paid with blood!" Other voices picked up the refrain.

"Yes, blood."

"Pay with blood!"

The blurs began moving in again and his heart rate jumped into the trip-hammer range. Dean knew that if the tommy knockers tried to break through the circle he and Mags would be insufficient to defend it.

"And the one who released you from your prison is dead. Poor way to repay your rescuer." That silenced the cries, which let his heart slow a bit. He took a deep breath and held his hands out, palm down in a calming gesture. "No one alive now is responsible for trapping you, but we agree that you got a bum deal. There's no reason why you shouldn't be ... recompensed in some way."

Two more blurs halted to join their spokesman near the circle. They looked interestedly past him at the heavily laden table.

"A bribe?"

"A gift of fine baking and fine spirits."

"Poor, pale, mortal fare."

Mags hurried up behind him in outrage. "Hey, that's the most expensive booze to be had in the whole county." Only Dean's outflung arm kept her from rushing over the edge of the circle in her hurry to defend their offering. "And my gran is the best cook in a hundred miles!"

"Watch it," he hissed at her. She subsided, throwing him a grateful glance when she saw her boot nudging a horseshoe out of alignment with the rest of the circle. It wasn't enough to break the ring, but it was bad enough.

Dean reached back and grabbed a single bottle and a handful of cookies. He tossed both out to the waiting tommy knockers. Everything was whisked away by weaving blurs of motion before it could touch the ground. Even the three spokesmen had vanished. There would be no need to speak. The cookies smelled like heaven, and the bottle of scotch was twelve year old single malt. They'd be convinced or they wouldn't.

This time it wasn't a single tommy knocker, but at least two dozen of the mud-colored creatures zipping forward to stop right in front of Dean and Mags where they waited. Small, dark eyes glittered, staring avidly at the laden table.

"How much?"

"Everything inside this circle is yours if you let it go and move on."

"Everything?"

He didn't need Mags' fingers tightening around his arm to warn him. Something in the tone caught Dean's attention and he phrased his words more carefully. "Every baked item and bottle of booze inside the circle here is yours if you forgo revenge for being trapped in that mine and move on from this place."

"Break the circle and let us feast."

"Is it agreed?"

"Agreed!" More than a dozen voices chorused the word.

Cautiously Dean reached out a foot and swept three horseshoes to the side, opening a break in the circle. And then small swift bodies were whipping past in both directions. The table and the ground around it was bare of food and bottles in less than a minute. The first spokesman, at least Dean thought it was him, paused and looked back, a pie held over his head.

"The gifted mortal child would have made a fine prize, but you bargain well, warrior."

And then the yard was empty of all motion except the wind in the trees.

*****

The Lowrys and Gileses had been sent on their way. There was cleaning that needed to be done.

"Not that I'm ungrateful, boy, but you couldn't have asked them to leave the dishes behind?"

"Oh hush, love. Come the weekend we can go into Hartsel and buy a whole new set."

Gram's eyes were gleaming and Paps looked disgruntled. They were eating soup out of mugs, canned soup, with no bread or anything else to accompany it. And with plastic spoons, as all the good silverware had been stolen the first night.

_Still better than fast food._

Silence descended on the table. Everyone was still alive and mostly unhurt. All in all, it was better than a lot of jobs he'd been on.

"So, boy." Paps set aside his mug and rested his elbows on the table. "What's next for you?"

Dean shrugged. "I continue north and meet up with my dad. We'll move on to whatever job comes next." He wasn't sure he would tell his dad about this little side trip, though. His dad never said a single word about his family. It's just you and me, boys, he'd always say, we've got to stick together. Maybe, one day, he'd tell Sammy, though. The kid would get a kick out of having cousins even weirder than he was.

"How do you make money, boy?"

"Hustling pool, or cards, or darts." It was best not to mention the credit card fraud. Some people could be a bit unreasonable about that.

"Not in Salt Creek, you don't."

"No, sir."

Mags set aside her own mug. "Don't be a stranger, Dean."

Dean grinned. "I'm a Winchester. They don't come any stranger than me."

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you stopping by to read. Drop me a note, please, if you liked it. :)


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